By Robyn Young

I had a conversation with a friend the other day that ended in hurt feelings—my hurt feelings. Sometimes you can sense tension building in a relationship before things boil over. Not this time. This one came completely out of the blue.

I walked away from that conversation feeling belittled, judged, inadequate. I even started questioning whether this friend had ever genuinely cared about me. It consumed me. I couldn’t focus on my kids, my home, or anything else—just the sting of how unfairly I felt treated. Within an hour, I could see the impact: I was short with my children, irritable, distracted. I found myself caught between wanting to stew in the hurt and desperately wanting to be free of it. For my family’s sake, I knew I needed to let it go.

Two days later, I felt a bit better, but the feelings still lingered. I kept replaying what had happened, still wanting some kind of justice—even if it was just saying, “I don’t want to be your friend anymore.” Deep down, I sensed I needed to release it all, but I resisted. Letting go felt like giving up something important. And worse—it meant letting go without getting the validation or sympathy I craved.

Then something shifted.

A dear friend of mine spoke at our women’s group at church. She shared a story of how her family had been deeply wronged—so serious that they pursued justice through the legal system. But the system failed them. For over five years, they wrestled with the emotional weight and trauma of that experience. And even though justice never came, she knew she had to forgive—for herself, for her family. She spoke of the peace and joy that came only after releasing the bitterness.

As I listened, something clicked. Suddenly, my own hurt felt... small. Was it real? Yes. Had I been offended? Absolutely. But my situation was a painful conversation. Hers was a life-altering injustice. And here she was, choosing peace, while I was still clutching my pride and resentment.

The Law of Relativity teaches:

Your situation is not fundamentally good or bad until you compare it to something else. Until you decide that it is either good or bad.

When I held my experience up against hers, mine looked different. Not invalid—just... manageable. Perspective had softened the edges of my pain. I realized I could let it go. Not because what was said to me didn’t matter, but because I mattered more. My peace mattered more. My family needed the best version of me, not the version weighed down by offense.

When things feel hard—and they truly may be—there is always someone else carrying something heavier. That doesn’t mean our pain doesn’t count. It means we have the chance to look at our experiences differently. First, we might only feel grateful that we’re not carrying someone else’s burden. But if we look closer, we often find even more to be thankful for.

And the more we lean into gratitude, the lighter life becomes.

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